


it's prom night (time to break you out)

by orphan_account



Category: SEVENTEEN - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Comedy, Fluff, Humor, I ADORE HIGH SCHOOL AU FICS, M/M, Pristin - Freeform, Prom, Romance, Underage Drinking, chan and hansol are bffs, foreplay happens, pristin makes an appearance, seungkwan is a smarty, side!NaPink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:14:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21537274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Prom is the seamless end of one chapter and the beginning of another. Breaking Hansol out of his home for prom, leads to Seungkwan starting the next chapter of his life.Featuring Hansol wearing a dress courtesy of Chan.
Relationships: Boo Seungkwan/Chwe Hansol | Vernon
Kudos: 31





	it's prom night (time to break you out)

Hansol is technically, ostensibly grounded. That is if you want to get into semantics, he says, which Seungkwan does.  
  
“Your dad likes me,” he says, motioning at Kyulkyung to turn the music down. “He _trusts_ me.”  
  
“Yeah, so, he’ll never suspect you,” Hansol says. There’s a muffled thump, followed by the distinct snap of branches.  
  
“Are you climbing out the window,” Seungkwan asks flatly.  
  
“Come pick me up, you’re the greatest,” Hansol shouts, then hangs up.  
  
Seungkwan rakes a hand through his hair before he remembers it has recently undergone thirty minutes of styling. “Turn around,” he says. “We’re doing a prison break.”  
  
" _Yes_ ," Kyulkyung says, committing four consecutive traffic violations.

* * *

  
They pull up in Kyulkyung’s beat up old car a few houses down the street. Seungkwan body-slams the passenger side door before it lets him out. He sees Hansol half running, half sneaking towards them in the dark, full leg movements limited by the pull of his dress around his thighs.   
  
His dress—  
  
“Huh,” Seungkwan says, when Hansol is close enough for him to get a good look. He’s decked out in a short, fitted red dress paired with his ratty high-top sneakers, long hair falling just above his shoulders in unruly blonde waves. There’s a fading burn mark on his neck from a curling iron.  
  
“You're really doing this?”  
  
Hansol shrugs, shoulders broad and bared. “What am I good for if I don’t follow through?”  
  
Halfway through sophomore year, Hansol and Chan had made a bet. Seungkwan was never privy to the details. In fact everyone'd forgotten until last week when Chan smuggled a dress into Hansol's locker accompanied by the latest prom issue of a fashion magazine. Evidently Hansol had lost.

“Every failure is a new opportunity,” Hansol’d said, full of great purpose, discreetly fishing his gum out of his mouth to stick it in Chan’s hair. He was taking a philosophy elective this semester. Seungkwan was taking it by extension, hanging out with Hansol in the library during their free period and working on his paper while Hansol amassed two dozen papercuts on each hand trying to get through his Kant readings.

“I don’t understand any of this,” Hansol whined around the cap of his highlighter. “I just want it to be over.”  
  
Seungkwan stole a glance at Hansol’s right palm, the pink Band-Aid running straight across his heart line, and had the absurd thought, _I don't_.  
  
“Nice ride,” Hansol says appreciatively as Seungkwan yanks open the car door and unleashes the sound of Kyulkyung blasting Fuck the Police. His dress rides up as he climbs into the backseat, flashing his boxer briefs to the world, but mostly to Seungkwan. Black, Seungkwan notices. His stomach tightens up in response. That’s not good.  
  


* * *

  
Unsurprisingly, Hansol isn’t allowed inside the dance. His appearance is inappropriate, controversial, and falls under the umbrella of disorderly conduct. Hansol makes his eyes big and sad. Kyulkyung does, too. Seungkwan doesn’t does his best too, pouting, but either way the teacher supervisor is unmoved.   
  
“Fuck that,” Chan declares, the third thing he says after coming out to meet them in front of the school. (The first was, upon seeing Hansol, “This is the best day of my life.” The second, “How much did you shave?”) The bass thumps through the gymnasium walls. “We were all talking about hitting the beach anyway. Give me half an hour to round up the rest?”  
  
“Alright,” Hansol agrees, sitting on the hood of Kyulkyung’s car. “But don’t invite that Lee guy. He sucks.”  
  
“I can wait out here with you,” Seungkwan offers, when Chan’s gone and Kyulkyung has run off too, looking for Nayoung.  
  
Hansol grins up at him. “Yeah? What about your date?”  
  
“She won’t miss me.” Seungkwan is Kyulkyung’s nice Korean boy, a way out of needing to explain being gay to her parents before college. Sometimes though, Seungkwan can tell, it’s right on the tip of her curbed tongue. For senior superlatives, Kyulkyung and Nayoung were voted _Best Friends_.

It was part funny, part insulting.

After that Nayoung would say, “Do you wanna go do ‘friend’ stuff?” five tons of sarcasm rocketing through the flex of her air quotes, and they’d spend the rest of lunch making out in the second floor girls’ bathroom, where the unlocked door dared other people to walk in. 

Seungkwan was predictably _Who You’d Bring Home To Mom And Dad._ Hansol had received one of his own too: _Best Smile._

Seungkwan didn’t say so—Hansol already thought he was hot stuff—but he’d voted for him. 

It was just the kind of smile that made you smile back. It got Seungkwan through biology lab, because when Hansol took a pair of dissecting scissors to their fetal pig and said, “This is gonna be sick,” the gleeful look on his face distracted Seungkwan from wanting to throw up all over his shoes.

Not a Million Dollar Smile, but easily fifty bucks, the cost of a prom ticket, or a good concert, a full tank of gas ready for all the weekends.

Hansol says, “Let’s get out of here,” and Seungkwan says, “Okay, but there’s no way in hell you’re driving.”

* * *

  
To pass the time, they sneak over onto the football field. The floodlights are off, but between the moon and the parking lot, there’s enough light for Seungkwan to see Hansol ahead of him, Hansol’s long legs taking the stairs two at a time. When they reach the top of the bleachers, Hansol pulls a plain plastic bottle out of the purse he’s been carrying around and hands it over. Seungkwan uncaps it, drinks, and chokes.  
  
“That’s not water,” he coughs.  
  
Hansol sits down on the highest bench and props his feet up indelicately onto the seat below. “Happy prom.”  
  
Seungkwan takes another pull, ready for it this time around, before passing the bottle back. The cheap vodka burns down his throat, warmth spreading outwards from his chest. He never gave a shit about prom.

Graduation has been the shining finish line from the first time he walked into high school, the next four years all planned out. He’s walking out in a week with a 3.9 GPA, honory school bound. Hansol got into his university of choice. Everyone has somewhere to go. The rest is just loose ends.  
  
“So why are you grounded?” Seungkwan asks, loosening his tie and slipping off his suit jacket, which he drapes half-teasingly around Hansol’s shoulders. Hansol bats his lashes in response.  
  
“Got caught smoking,” he says. “Dad just wanted to squeeze in one last slap on the wrist before I officially outgrow it. I’ll be free in time for grad night.”  
  
“Not if he finds out about today,” Seungkwan says.  
  
Hansol rubs the back of his neck, ruining his half-assed curls even further. “What was I gonna do, miss out?”  
  
“You are missing out,” Seungkwan reminds him. They’re far enough from the school that they can’t hear the music anymore, almost like they’re alone. With the sun down, air that’s warm during the day carries a bite. Blood surfaces in Hansol’s cheekbones, visible even in the dark.  
  
He lifts the bottle back to his mouth, looking out across the endless green turf. “Nah,” he says. “This is better.”

* * *

  
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Hansol says, and lists on his fingers: “The Harry Potter series has the best plot, the best development, the best reveals, Harry nearly _dies_ —“  
  
Seungkwan butts in, “If that’s your criteria for a good movie series, Lela actually dies in Fanastic Beasts—“  
  
“Are you shitting me? Has our entire friendship been a sham?”  
  
Seungkwan tries to keep his expression blank. It’s hard when he’s buzzed. “The effects were a lot better in the Fanastic Beasts—“  
  
Hansol drives his shoulder into Seungkwan’, making Seungkwan sway out, back in like a pendulum. “The east coast can have you and your shitty opinions,” he says. “Hey, text Chan.”

Seungkwan whips out his phone, types ' _how much longer?'_ and puts it aside again as Hansol knuckles at his eyes. Make-up is new to him, easy to forget. He licked all the color off his lips within the first five minutes in Kyulkyung’s car. His younger sister’s handiwork has in the last half hour gradually transferred from Hansol’s face onto the side of his hand. Seungkwan reaches forward before he can think about doing it.

“Hold still,” he says. Hansol does. Seungkwan sweeps his thumb under Hansol’s left eye, cleaning the smudge of mascara along his lower lash line. What’s left of a perfectly drawn wing tip is streaked across the edge of Hansol’s eyelid.

He rubs at it until it clears, the skin there soft and thin. Then he does the same with Hansol’s right eye, carefully, attentively, as Hansol breathes out right against the base of Seungkwan’s palm, above the pulse in Seungkwan’s wrist.

  
When he’s done, he pulls away. Stops holding his breath. Hansol remains, his face tilted up by an infinitesimal amount, and barer.

“Chan really did a number on you,” Seungkwan says. 

Hansol leans back again and finds the vodka. “Did I tell you what the bet was about?”

“You didn’t tell anyone,” Seungkwan says.

“It’s pretty funny.” Hansol passes the bottle again, then cranes back and stares up at the sky. “I had the biggest crush on you sophomore year.”

Seungkwan drops the bottle. It rolls sadly across the bleacher step, spilling everywhere, before falling through the gap and down into the torn up grass below. Hansol laughs loudly.

“Dude, I thought you knew.”

“I did,” Seungkwan says, “I just didn’t think you were ever going to say it.”

“You never looked like you wanted to hear it,” Hansol says. “Anyway, the bet was, if you and I were going out by prom, Chan would wear the dress.”

Hansol’s interest had been as subtle as an atomic bomb. He followed Seungkwan through the halls like a devoted dog, helped carry his books to class without asking. At the same time, he got around pretty often, went through a seven month phase of only dating sullen, skinny underclassmen.

Seungkwan was in a serious relationship with his future prospects and didn’t know how to factor in a something as big as Hansol. Hansol didn’t seem to hold it against him. By their junior year he’d toned down the hero worship.

They started studying together more often, Hansol on his bed, Seungkwan at the desk, throwing their math notes at each other from across the room as if the floor between them was lined with stakes. High school was a delicate structure, Seungkwan knew. You were lucky to find any kind of equilibrium, let alone sustain it for so long. But now high school’s almost over and he kind of wants the risk. Wants his due. 

He tries to wish the alcohol back into his possession. “You guys made that deal two years in advance?”

“Yeah, shouldn’t I be over you by now?” Hansol grins. It has the same effect as always. Makes Seungkwan feel less like he’s standing above another freakish dead pig, scalpel in hand, no clue where to start.

“Maybe I’m the One,” he jokes.

“If that’s true, we’re both fucked,” Hansol says, looking at him. “You gonna kiss me, or do I have to wear a leotard next?”

“Fuck it, yeah,” Seungkwan says, and just goes for it.

* * *

  
Two years of foreplay means Hansol is really eager about finally getting his hands on Seungkwan. There’s kissing and then there’s what he’s doing, his tongue in Seungkwan’s mouth, tasting like cheap vodka, slick and vulgar enough to make Seungkwan want to blush. The jacket falls off Hansol’s shoulders as he wraps Seungkwan’s tie around his palm and uses it to angle him into the kiss like it’s a leash.

The tightness around Seungkwan’s throat is unexpectedly hotwired straight to his dick, but what’s better is the wounded little noise Hansol makes when Seungkwan bites at his bottom lip.  
  
Hansol’s dress bunches up as he gets his knees apart, leaning into and pressed up half-hard against Seungkwan’s stomach, branding him through his dress shirt. Seungkwan licks the roof of Hansol’s mouth, hot and slow, and feels the twitch in Hansol’s cock like a sledgehammer. Seungkwan slides into Hansol's lap, wrapping his arms around his neck, fiercely kissing him.

At some point Seungkwan’s phone buzzes. He breaks the kiss to read the new text as Hansol redirects his mouth onto Seungkwan’s neck, sucking hard.

“Chan says we leave in five minutes.”

Hansol backs up, wipes his mouth. “I wanna make you come first.”

“Jesus,” Seungkwan says, dizzy, but Hansol’s pushing Seungkwan off of his lap. His knees hit the bleacher with a metallic punch that winds Seungkwan up with anticipation. “What if I have a third date rule?”

“Yeah, right,” Hansol says, undoing Seungkwan’s belt and pants, getting his dick out. It bobs up against Seungkwan’s stomach, pretty and flushed, the cold air making Seungkwan shiver. Hansol looks at it, sort of glazed, looks back up at Seungkwan, his pupils blown. He sinks further between Seungkwan's legs and bends down and swallows half of him in one go.

Seungkwan’s mind goes fuzzy, his dick filling up the rest of the way against Hansol’s tongue. Hansol’s blowjob proficiency is up in the air but he goes after it like it’s his dirtiest fantasy come true. Like any second someone’s going to come and take it away from him.

He swirls his tongue around the head of Seungkwan’s cock, takes more each time he slides back down, takes more until he makes himself choke, his throat squeezing around Seungkwan. Seungkwan’s head tips forward as he groans.

“Stop trying to be a porn star,” he says roughly, gripping the hard edge of the bleacher.

Hansol laughs, kind of, his mouth stuffed full. He grabs one of Seungkwan’s hands off the bench and guides it into his hair, so Seungkwan cups the back of his skull, digging his fingers through the soft curls.

The night chill makes the inside of Hansol's mouth so fucking hot. He thrusts his hips forward, pushing his cock in blunt and smooth, bumping up against the back of Hansol’s throat. Hansol moans around it, satisfied, then he’s quiet, just the wet sounds his mouth makes as Seungkwan fucks steadily into it. 

Five minutes isn’t enough. Five years wouldn’t be enough, and Seungkwan wasted two never letting Hansol blow him. He wants to go back and hold him down, _be_ held down against his bed, the lockers, a library bookshelf. He wants more time, all summer to blow Hansol back, get a taste.

The thought makes his cock jerk against Hansol’s tongue. He comes sudden and hard, burning up, digging his teeth into the side of his hand so he doesn’t embarrass himself.

Hansol pulls off and spits out a mouthful of Seungkwan’s come onto the bleachers. Seungkwan doesn’t have it in himself to feel insulted, his body feels too loose and heavy and good. He lets go of Hansol’s hair but Hansol doesn’t move, pressing his sweaty forehead against Seungkwan’s thigh.

In the dark, with the blood flowing back to his brain, Seungkwan finally makes out Hansol’s dress hiked the rest of the way around his hips. Hansol’s hand shoved up under it, desperately jacking himself off. 

“Let me help,” Seungkwan says, voice hoarse.

“No,” Hansol pants, “just—stay there.”

Seungkwan doesn’t have a good view but the knowledge alone comes with a hot rush in his gut. All he can do is watch the rhythmic movement of Hansol’s arm, the pronounced sharpness of his shoulderblades as his spine folds over.

He fills in the rest with his imagination, Hansol’s cockhead shiny and wet as it slides through his fist, Hansol’s slack mouth, the leftover taste of Seungkwan’s spunk still inside it, glassy eyed, flush faced, wanting to come so bad he can’t hold off another second.

Seungkwan could’ve had this a long time ago but it wouldn’t have been as good. Hansol kneeling over his lap, breathing hard, like somebody tamed him. Hansol building up and building up and finally getting what he wants.

  
Hansol goes tense, shaking as he comes into his dress, his face buried against the inside of Seungkwan’s thigh, Seungkwan’s soft cock tucked up against his curls. He turns liquid through the aftershocks.

Seungkwan pushes Hansol’s hair back from his forehead and behind his ear, feeling the softness of his hair without the ugly wig. Hansol starts, first, groggily. Then he turns, slowly brushes his mouth across the inside of Seungkwan’s clothed thigh. 

There's no turning back now.


End file.
